Until recently, I sported scabs on both temples and another at the base of my nose. Yes, I was the recipient of an unprovoked altercation where apparently I was the loser. In fact, it happened so suddenly I couldn’t defend myself.
A couple months ago I adopted feisty Tippi, a feral kitten I trapped living under a grocery store. She tamed down nicely but her chronic upper respiratory infection didn’t respond to treatment, making her unadoptable at the humane society. So now she’s mine. Or, if you ask Tippi, I’m hers.
In the short time I’ve had Tippi-toes, I’ve discovered she’s not what you’d call boring. Even so, I thought she’d be like my 3 other cats: easy-going, mellow and predictable. Let me clarify something; Tippi in no way resembles any of those adjectives. When she’s lovey-dovey, draping both arms around my neck, nuzzling me in a warm embrace, I know that tender moment can evaporate as quickly as a puddle in the desert.
Yes, this little pussycat startles easily. One sudden move by me and I’m dodging swings like Muhammad Ali. In fact, that explains my recent facial scabs. You see, I had the audacity to actually scratch an itch on my face while the Tipster was hugging me. That did it. She reared up and clamped her claws to my temples like a rock climber scaling Half Dome.
The nose scab was Tippi warning me she was tired of being stroked. A simple no thank you would have sufficed. But she is not much of a talker, which I discovered after inadvertently shutting her in my craft closet one morning. And afternoon. And evening.
If meowing is not Tippi’s thing, tailing me is. Like Lassie following Timmy, she shadows me from room to room. Come to think of it, maybe she’s more of a stalker because I simply can’t shake her. Trust me, I’ve tried.
I’ve never done so many deep knee bends from picking up what Tippi knocks off tables. Seems I have a plethora of knock-able items: picture frames, vitamins, note pads, papers, pens, candles. The list goes on…Her favorite, though, is knocking over a large ceramic vase. One day I fully expect to find said vase in a hundred pieces on the kitchen floor.
There’s something about Tippi that grabs attention: She has a tiny head, a way-too-severe tipped ear (thus the name), a body like an old swayback horse and short, stubby legs. She may not be a classic beauty but she does score in the personality department.
Tippi is not like my other cats that eat to live. She lives to eat, chowing down whatever they don’t finish, then looking to snatch the dogs’ meals. Fortunately, they eat too quickly for her to be a successful kibble thief.
The Tipster uses the hall rug and my leather office chair as her personal scratching posts. Even though scratchers are at her disposal, they are of no interest to her. She constantly sits in front of my computer monitor, goading me to play while I’m rocking my head back and forth to see around her. I remove her from the room but she scratches at the door. Then I let her back in. And so it goes…
jumps up on the stove while I’m cooking and will pounce on anything that moves.
Now don’t get me wrong; Tippi has adorable moments too. She sleeps curled at the end of my bed, waiting for me to awaken so she can nuzzle my face like I’m her human napkin. This kitty actually watches TV, knows how to turn on my office lamp
and flirts with her image in a full-length mirror. But most of all, Tippi’s best trait is that she unequivocally adores me.
I ask you: What more could I want from a chronically ill, bi-polar torbie? I mean, other than a few less facial scabs.